


Of Birthdays and Boom Cakes

by HalfBakedPoet



Series: One Shot, Two Shot, Some Shots, Blue Box [7]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Baking, Birthday Cake, Birthday Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Family Fluff, Fluff, Friendship/Love, One Shot, Other companion cameos, Tumblr Prompt, group hug, look I had a lot of fanart ideas while writing this one but have zero drawing talent, or at least there's thasmin if you squint, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23576836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBakedPoet/pseuds/HalfBakedPoet
Summary: A series of birthday parties leading off from the Doctor Thirteenth book. Sugar-filled antics ensue.Prompted by Tumblr anon: "Birthday Party"
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: One Shot, Two Shot, Some Shots, Blue Box [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668127
Comments: 34
Kudos: 52





	Of Birthdays and Boom Cakes

Cleaning up the cake was, in a word, _pink_. Every crystal facet, every button, lever and switch on the console was in some way splattered and smeared with magenta, blush, rose, coral, pastel, shocking, and neon pink. And the TARDIS, which had just finished humming along to “Happy Birthday” moments before the cake exploded all over her interior, was practically moaning that she had worked very hard to keep tidy with the fam tracking in mud all the time and this would take ages to get out and how did the Doctor not realize that a _Sontaran Frosted Boom Cake_ was actually an edible explosive device?

The Doctor herself, frosted with icing and chocolate from head to foot, smeared pink buttercream out of her eyes, a grin stretching wide as she started to laugh, blended sugar and butter falling into her mouth. She had noticed only too late that the cake was about to detonate: _well, that’s it, then, the end in pink_ , she thought as pieces and globs flew in all directions. _N_ _ot the death I was expecting. Leave it to the Sontarans. And on Yaz’s birthday! The cheek!_ And it hit her full in the face, coating all of her front. But then, she could open her eyes (never mind the sting of sugar sliding into them), and the sight of her fam in similar states of mess, Yaz plastered, Graham and Ryan splattered, all frosted like poorly decorated sweets in a wonky bakeshop window, was too much. She bent double, the sight of her boots blobbed pink only spurring more uncontrollable giggling.

Over great peals of the Doctor’s laughter, Graham, eyes wide through his own helping of frosting, as though he had witnessed an actual bomb go off, said, “That’s it, I thought we were done for. And Yaz, on your birthday as well.”

Yaz, party hat askew, wiped her hand down her face, a glob of chocolate collecting on the edge of her palm. She, too, started to laugh, leaning on Ryan for support. It was all so infectious, the split second’s tension that they all thought they’d die at the work of a dessert, melting with the frosting on the overwarm console. Ryan took the opportunity to sling a handful at Graham, missed, and hit the Doctor in the face.

The Doctor, on her knees in buttercream an inch thick, resting against the pink console, sobbed harder. “S…Sontaran Frosted Boom Cake,” she howled. “Should’ve known when it was starting to bubble on like that, well done, Sontarans.”

They spent the rest of the party scraping cake off the TARDIS controls onto plates, scooting out the door as the TARDIS’ exasperation hissed after them, and dissolving into giggles between bites in the shadow of the Luftwaffe outside on the grass.

“Never knew Sontarans were such clever bakers,” said the Doctor, dipping a bit of cake into the icing in her hair. She popped it into her mouth. “Tactical and tasty. I’ll have to ask Strax how they do it. He’d probably be on about the glory of Sontar in the happiest of birthdays.”

“I’d like to see them try that on Bake Off,” said Graham.

After the Luftwaffe had been returned to the exact time of the London Blitz (if not to the _site_ of the Blitz itself, no harm in two balloons fewer), the TARDIS complained as the Doctor cleaned. The Doctor—still covered in confectionery—had shooed the fam off to the showers and proceeded to scrape cake and chocolate off every surface she could reach. And even if it wasn’t perfectly gleaming, and even if the TARDIS continued to make plaintive noises as she pressed the “self clean” button on the console to clear up the remnants and residue, the Doctor couldn’t help beaming the entire time. Between the sugar high, Yaz’s expression at the revelation of the surprise party, and the very happy afternoon slinging cake, it had been a near perfect day. She closed the hall door behind her as the control room clean cycle began spitting to life, sanitizer and mist gushing in; just enough acid to strip the leftover cake from every crevice, but also enough to be lethal to organic matter.

The Doctor sighed, leaning back against the door.

And she remembered the state of her coat. In mute horror, she looked down, pink smeared and stained on the sleeves, dried icing crusted on at the trim. The Doctor tentatively licked her cuff, but the pink didn’t budge. In dismay, she licked the spot on her cuff again, looking up in time to see Yaz in pajamas, hair up in a towel, watching her with a mixture of amusement and concern. They stared at each other for a second. Hastily, the Doctor put her tongue back in her mouth.

“Might want to avoid the control room for the rest of the night,” she said, “Cleaning cycle, potentially deadly.” The Doctor locked the door behind her, sonic giving a quick blip.

Yaz’s eyebrows stayed where they were high on her forehead, and the Doctor inwardly cursed her residual social awkwardness. _Never the right time for it._

“You okay?” asked Yaz, amusement winning over the emotional mixture on her face.

“’Course! TARDIS is a little grumpy about the mess and my coat’ll need a good wash but nothing the dry cleaner in here can’t fix… I hope.” The Doctor resisted the urge to lick her sleeve again.

“Coat’s not the only thing that needs a wash,” chuckled Yaz, letting her wet hair down. She crossed the few feet between them to pick a stray crumb out of the Doctor’s hair. “But pink’s a good color on you.”

“You think so? I thought pink looked good on everybody. The TARDIS should redecorate.” The TARDIS grumbled through the door. “Just a joke,” the Doctor called back. “Blue’s always been your color.”

The Doctor could only imagine the state of her own appearance: dried icing hanging in pink icicles about her face in her hair, an odd smear of buttercream and mashed cake across parts of her face. If she crossed her eyes, she could see a splodge of chocolate on the end of her nose. The corner of her mouth still tasted vanilla sweet, and the upper bound of her lip had the rough texture of dried crumbs.

“…I’m in a proper state, aren’t I, Yaz?” the Doctor asked. Yaz failed to smother her smile, which lifted her cheeks toward her eyes. “You can be honest, I love honesty. Probably one of the higher forms of courage, honesty.” Why was she talking so fast? What was that niggling feeling spreading somewhere between her stomach and her face, the first of which was swooping like she was about to be sick, the latter growing steadily hot? _I thought we sorted the vanity issue ages ago_ , she chided herself. _That or I’ve had too much cake. Oh, what if the Sontarans baked in a delayed action poison—_

“Could be worse,” said Yaz. “Nothing a bath couldn’t fix, yeah?”

“Yeah. A bath,” said the Doctor faintly, her eyes distant as she sorted and questioned in her mind.

“You still here?” Yaz leaned sideways into the Doctor’s sightline, and the Doctor snapped back to the present.

“What? Oh. Yeah. Did you like it?”

“Hm?”

“I mean, was it a good birthday? It’s been a while since I’ve pulled a surprise like that, never know if it’ll be just right. Well, Graham and Ryan came up with the idea and I went on to fetch things—“

“It was lovely,” Yaz interrupted gently, her smile growing. “One of the best birthdays, honest.”

“—and I swear I didn’t know the cake was going to explode, but what a surprise in a surprise! Like an Easter egg of surprises! Surprise-ception,” the Doctor grinned.

“Thank you,” said Yaz sincerely. “For going to the trouble. I’ve never had friends go all out for me like that. Come to mind, I can’t say I’ve had a cake explode on me, either.”

“First time for everything.” They stood grinning at each other and the Doctor thought about giving Yaz a hug, but remembered half a second before she started moving that she was still covered in cake, and Yaz had just showered. “Right, I should clean up before this sets in,” said the Doctor after a moment. “Happy birthday, Yaz.” And she took off down the hall, trailing pink.

Sinking up to her nose in the bath, once she had been assured that the stains were out of her coat for good, buttercream melting out of her hair in streaks on the foamy water, the Doctor labeled the feeling as embarrassment.

The TARDIS refused to allow any more alien bakery purchased sweets with dodgy names onboard. Not that the Doctor blamed her, it took twice the amount of time for the auto cleaning cycle to finish, and the fam was stranded apart from the controls for a full day afterward. So for Graham’s birthday, the Doctor pretended to drop off the humans in Sheffield, and collected Yaz and Ryan behind a barn just outside the town.

“Did you get everything?” she asked, peering left and right outside the TARDIS door before stepping aside to invite them in. Yaz and Ryan, laden with paper bags, all but collapsed in the doorway.

“I think so,” Yaz gasped. “Did we really need this much?”

“Yeah, no way am I making a grocery run like this again,” said Ryan, dropping an industrial-sized bag of flour, which gave a small white puff as it hit the ground.

The Doctor gave the shopping a scan, and nodded her approval. “Yes of _course_ we needed this much! Sixty is a proper round number, so we need sixty layers of cake, yes?”

“I think we could’ve just done that with candles,” muttered Yaz, hoisting her own bag of sugar.

The Doctor picked up one of Ryan’s charges. She staggered under the weight of the flour bag and waddled toward the hall. “Come on,” she grunted, “Test kitchen’s this way, let’s get a shift on.”

“You have a _test kitchen?_ ” said Yaz in the doorway, stainless steel gleaming out at her and Ryan as they gawped.

“Of course I have a test kitchen! Where d’you think I make enough peanut biscuits to share with the elephants on Castor Twenty-Four?” She dumped her bag of flour on the counter and started running amok, pulling vast bowls and mixers out of cabinets and clanging them on the countertop.

“S’not like the kitchen we use,” said Ryan. “Like, at all.”

“No, I thought the fam kitchen should be a bit homier. So I had the TARDIS model it after Graham’s.” The Doctor dove halfway into a lower cabinet and re-emerged with a stack of linens: three aprons and—Yaz hid behind her hand as she sniggered—three chef’s hats. “Oi, chef’s hats are cool! Rather professional. Shows you mean business when you’re baking.” The Doctor selected an apron shaped like Totoro, ears and all, and pulled on a hat. The hat flopped about her ears, the ends of her hair mushrooming out from the band. “Go on, then,” she said, tossing the red gingham apron to Ryan and the Martian patterned to Yaz. She opted to put the hats on them herself, standing on tiptoe to wrestle Ryan into his. Yaz dodged the Doctor’s first pass with her hat, colliding painfully with the edge of a table, and the Doctor succeeded in hatting her, the band pulled down over Yaz’s eyes.

“You’re like cats, you lot! It’s either the hat or a hair net and I thought the hats were much more fashionable.”

They set to work: Yaz melting chocolate in a double boiler, Ryan cracking eggs into a mixing bowl so large he could have sat in it, and the Doctor scooping dry ingredients into another receptacle that could have been a wash bin. Flour clouded around her, and she smudged white on her cheek. Once she had finished blending flour and sugar, she scooted between stations to check on her friends.

“You’ve got a bit…” said Yaz, swiping the Doctor’s cheek with a dampened towel. The Doctor beamed with a single clean, non-floured spot on her whole face. She watched Yaz return her attention to the chopped bricks of chocolate that were taking their time to melt. Yaz scraped the sides of the double boiler with care.

“You’re very good at that, Yaz,” said the Doctor, happily dipping her finger for a taste.

“Hey! Hands to yourself, Doctor, that’s not sanitary,” said Yaz, swatting. “And it’s just chocolate,” she added, mumbling.

“But very important chocolate,” countered the Doctor, her index finger popping out of her mouth. Yaz tucked her chin and kept stirring, trying not to look too pleased with herself.

“Mary Berry, eat your heart out,” said Ryan, flipping the switch on the mixer. The whisk spun in the bowl, fluffing the fifty eggs he had just cracked.

The flurry of activity from all three halted only when all thirty cake pans were filled and placed in the oven to bake. Each resulting cake would be twice the thickness needed for successful layers, so they would slice each in half across once they were done baking. Slightly out of breath, they pulled up stools to their flour-dusted table, and the Doctor poured them all mugs of tea from the mercifully available, battered kettle that had been shunted off to one corner for just such occasions between bakes.

“Good teamwork, fam,” said the Doctor, settling with her own mug of Earl Grey. “I hope we got the flavors right. Ryan?”

“Oh, yeah, Graham loves anything chocolate-raspberry,” said Ryan, “Sixty layers might be a bit overwhelming, but he’ll love it.”

“When’s your birthday, Doctor?” asked Yaz.

The Doctor took a long sip of her tea, nearly scalding her upper lip. “Why?” she finally responded.

Yaz and Ryan exchanged a glance. “Because you’re goin’ all out for us, maybe we want to return the favor someday?” said Ryan. They Doctor held his gaze, hoping to the stars he couldn’t tell what she’d planned for _his_ birthday. (Actually, it was fifty-three plans in potential. She’d have to consult with Graham and Yaz, particularly about the VR Fifa arena she’d had the TARDIS prototype.)

She bent her mouth into a half-apologetic smile. “Gallifreyan calendars aren’t like the ones on Earth,” she started weakly.

“Yeah, but shouldn’t there be an overlap somewhere?” interjected Yaz.

“Sort of. The best I can think of is Lewis Carroll and un-birthdays.”

“How d’you mean?” asked Ryan.

“Well, an un-birthday is every day that’s not your birthday, so every day is someone’s birthday but everyone else’s un-birthday,” rattled the Doctor. “So most Earth days except for one are an un-birthday to you, but the thing is, in the space-time vortex as I go, every day on Earth is both an un-birthday and a birthday for me.”

“So, what you’re saying is…” started Ryan.

“Every day’s your birthday?” finished Yaz.

“And none of them are,” concluded the Doctor. “Fact is, I can’t remember when exactly it is, it gets all muddled in the continuum. Lost track of how old I am summat like two hundred years ago?” Ryan and Yaz exchanged another look. “What?” she asked. “No age jokes,” she added quickly, holding up a finger.

Ryan looked down, disappointed.

After the smashing success of Graham’s sixtieth birthday cake, the TARDIS relented, and her disgruntled mood about Yaz’s birthday lifted. Not a crumb of Graham’s cake was explosive, all layers of which, stacked on the table had to be frosted and decorated with the aid of a stepladder and oversized spatulas that were more like garden trowels. And that combined with the sedate birthday tea and board games for Graham’s birthday were enough for the Doctor to convince the TARDIS to allow a third celebration, this time for Ryan.

“This,” shouted Ryan as he bolted across the pool floor. “Is proper,” he continued, leaping into the air. “Awesome!” He cannonballed in slow motion; the gravity settings in the swimming pool set a _hair_ lower than usual, and his resulting splash shimmered in floating orbs of water around the room. The Doctor, fully clothed and wearing sunglasses, lazed in an inner tube, which hovered a few feet above the water. A blended daiquiri floated on its own miniature inner tube beside her, and the concentrated (previously harvested) sunlight radiated in from the arcing glass above them.

Yaz bobbed in the water below, her hair tied up, and Graham lounged on one of the beach chairs at the water’s edge, snoozing. Basketball nets had been set up on either end of the pool and Ryan and Tibo had amused themselves for an hour splashing back and forth in a game of one-on-one, the anti-gravity proving a challenge and an aid to them both. Across the room on a table was a large Victoria sandwich, cake, strawberries and cream in a neat mound, which stood beside a smallish titanium device that dispensed whatever drink was asked of it. Ryan’s favorite music had been installed into the auto-DJ booth at the other end of the pool, and after much volume adjustment, the water stopped shuddering with each bass pulse.

The Doctor lowered her shades to peer at Ryan and Tibo, who had started roughhousing in the water, much to the chagrin of Yaz, who swam to the other end to avoid the collision of bodies and residual splashing.

“Oi, take it easy, lads, let’s not have anyone drown today,” the Doctor called lazily. She didn’t _want_ to have to use her bright red whistle, which hung around her neck, but she would if she had to. Granted, the slightly amped anti-grav made it _very_ hard for anyone to get really hurt, which was just as well that Ryan could romp to his heart’s content. The Doctor sipped her drink, crunching the crushed ice.

“You look content,” said Yaz, craning up at her. “Mind coming down for a chat?”

“Always love a chat with you, Yaz,” said the Doctor, waving her sonic over the inner tube, which lowered itself to mere inches above the water. “What’s up?”

“You are, for one,” said Yaz.

“Right you are, I am a hovering lifeguard. Could get you one of these tubes, too, if you wanted.”

“That’s all right, I might ask you later.” Yaz reclined against the edge of the pool. “Did you think about what we asked you just before Graham’s birthday?”

The Doctor shoved her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I still don’t remember when my birthday is, Yaz.” A knot started forming in her stomach.

“No, but, if we wanted to celebrate it,” said Yaz, “If you could do anything, to celebrate yourself, what would it be?”

“Ordinarily, I’d say everything,” said the Doctor, “but I do that on the regular, don’t I?” She took another slurp of daiquiri. “So I guess, it’d be something just like this, time with you, with my fam. All my friends, if I could, but they can’t all be here at once.”

“There’s no way the TARDIS is too small for all your friends,” laughed Yaz, but she saw the way the Doctor’s forehead started to crease with worry. “Oh, you don’t mean space, do you?”

“No.” The Doctor had been dreading this sort of conversation. It was one thing to be as old as she was, another to want _all_ of her friends close, but be unable to reach them. She thought of Donna, who under no circumstances should receive an invitation, and she slouched deeper into her inner tube. She thought of Clara and Bill, and tried not to think of their respective deaths. She thought of the Ponds whisked away to another time, of River trapped in Stormcage or whenever she was, and Rose tucked away in her own pocket of parallel universe.

Yaz, sensing the Doctor’s melancholy, quickly said, ”I’m sorry. You’re upset.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said the Doctor, putting on a cheerier expression. “Ryan looks so happy, I’m glad this worked. Took me a moment to get the anti-grav calibration right.”

Yaz kicked slowly at the water, watching Ryan and Tibo climb out of the pool to towel off, her mind whirring far ahead.

“Distress signal?” The TARDIS blipped. “Where? Not Sheffield?” The TARDIS beeped more insistently. “Hang on, fam,” said the Doctor, pulling switches and pressing buttons in a frenzy. The TARDIS groaned and wheezed, at top speed, coming to a quicker thud than usual. The Doctor dashed out the doors, bursting into the Khan family sitting room, brandishing her sonic. It took her a moment to register what was happening, as Yaz practically flew around the corner of the blue box, into her line of sight. The Doctor caught her by the forearms, looking her up and down for any signs of distress or injury.

“Surprise!” said Yaz.

“Yaz! What—the TARDIS said—distress— _what?_ ”

And Yaz stepped aside. On the Khan family kitchen counter was a heap, nay, a small mountain of custard creams, Ryan and Graham on either side, a tasteful, TARDIS-printed banner hung over the lot reading _Happy ~~Un~~ Birthday_. A cluster of gold balloons accented the whole display.

“Happy birthday, Doc,” said Graham.

“Yeah, whenever it is, happy birthday,” added Ryan.

“You lot,” said the Doctor through a smile, her arm falling limp to her side as she let Yaz lead her to the couch. “You didn’t have to do all this, I told you my birthday practically doesn't exist.” She turned back toward the TARDIS, whose door was still open. “And you. Last time I want a false alarm from you, you made it too convincing,” she said sternly. The TARDIS chirped with mischief.

“There’s a bit more,” said Yaz, curling her legs under her once they’d sat down. Ryan and Graham leaned over them from behind. From her pocket, Yas produced a palm-sized metal disc, which the Doctor recognized as a battered holo-recorder, a blue ribbon tied neatly around it. “From all of us. And the TARDIS, she pulled out all the stops. Mostly the TARDIS, really.”

Tongue between her teeth and her hearts lodged in her throat, the Doctor pulled the ribbon loose and pressed the center button.

Rose Tyler materialized in her hand, and the Doctor forgot to breathe, her stomach soaring. “You didn’t,” she whispered. Her mind raced. _When? How?_

“Not sure if I’m dreaming or what,” said holo-Rose, a little shyly. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen, just new to life with the universe at her fingertips. “But the TARDIS gave me this while you ran out, tag said ‘Happy birthday, Doctor’ so I guess… yeah. Happy birthday, Doctor.”

Rose faded, and Martha Jones replaced her. “I reckon you do have a birthday, sometime,” said Martha, “so yeah, I hope it’s a good one…”

The Doctor gasped for air, her eyes starting to flood. Donna Noble wavered into view, her face too close to the camera. “Is this thing on? I can’t tell, aw, to hell with—okay, the light’s on. Happy birthday, Space Man. What’s this, nine hundred and ten? …Is that it? Do I turn it off by pressing it agai—”

She felt Yaz scoot closer, her proximity a small comfort for the mixture of joy and sorrow welling in her chest. The Ponds were next, squeezing into frame together. Amy and Rory’s cheeks pressed up against each other, Amy shoving Rory out of frame every now and again. “Happy birthday, Raggedy Man, you’ve just gone down to the swimming pool, had to get you out of the room somehow…”

River flickered into view, smiling. “Hello, sweetie.” (Yaz cocked an eyebrow.) “Happiest of birthdays to you…”

Then Clara, another failed soufflé in tow. Then Bill, full afro, big smile. Clara must have taken the recorder with her for a time, snuck it into a younger TARDIS, because Susan, Ian and Barbara, Victoria, Sarah Jane, everyone who had ever traveled with the Doctor, even K9, had a recording. There was Jack, all swagger and lopsided grin; Jenny and Vastra and Strax trading quips; Wilf giving a salute. The Doctor let her tears fall, laughing at times. Then the fam appeared, a wide angle shot, standing together.

“Hi, Doctor,” said holo-Yaz. “We’d just been bickering about what to do for your birthday.”

“I still say another pool party would’ve been proper,” interrupted Ryan.

“Well, you’d run off to make a pot of tea or some of that god awful iced stuff, whatever it is,” continued Graham.

“And the TARDIS popped this out of the console, some hidden drawer,” said Yaz.

“Didn’t take us long to figure it out,” said Ryan. “We got mad tech skills.”

“Ryan, it was two buttons,” said Yaz.

“Anyway,” said Graham, the hologram flitting with pixels for a split second. “We figured we ought to record ours as one rather than pass it ‘round. Because we’re family, we do this sort of thing together.”

“And even if you’ve forgotten your birthday, we haven’t and the TARDIS hasn’t,” said Yaz. “Seems like she’s been working on this one a while.”

“So that’s it,” Ryan concluded. “Something to take with you if you can’t have us all the time. Happy birthday, every day.”

“Happy birthday, Doc.”

“Happy birthday, Doctor.”

All three waved, beaming out at her, and the hologram dissipated. The Doctor’s fingers curled around the little disc and she slid it into her deepest pocket. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, sniffling, her breath shaky. For once, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Yaz seemed to be hovering, her anticipation like static on the air. “Do you like it?”

“It’s _brilliant_ ,” said the Doctor thickly. “The gang’s all here, every single one.” Yaz handed her a tissue, and the Doctor made a mental note to give her ship a full tune-up with the warm wax finish she always “forgot” to do. The TARDIS would enjoy that, the tender care of painstaking polish by hand. She felt Yaz touch her arm, and allowed herself to be held, leaning into the hug. Then Ryan came around the edge of the couch and sandwiched the Doctor between himself and Yaz. And Graham did his best to encircle them all in his arms from behind the couch.

The recorder pulsed in her coat pocket, the warmth of a hundred voices and all her friends radiating over her hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, fam!
> 
> This week was tough. Not to disclose too much but I was a target of racism on Monday while on a socially responsible walk. I'm okay! Taking care of myself and my needs, and I needed to write something soft and fluffy that didn't hurt too much. (Listen, I've apologized profusely for Psychic Ink, okay?)
> 
> As I put up there in the tags it would be WICKED AWESOME if someone with art skills did a piece of my work--it's actually a fanfic dream of mine, but no worries if this doesn't pan out. Wishful thinking. Artists in collaboration are SUCH a powerful force--gifting on here is incredible! Check out my gifts on my dashboard, the lovely thirteengrins gave me the neatest fic about the Doctor in therapy. And Wish You Well is dedicated to the fabulous freefallvertigo, who has been working for OVER A YEAR on some of their fics. Lots of quality on here!
> 
> As always, smash any buttons you like, comments are a constant delight, be kind to yourselves and others, and wash your hands. If you liked what you read here and you haven't seen the others yet, this is the eighth installment of my DW one shot series during the Coronapocalypse.
> 
> Take care,  
> Jo


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